Confluence
by sydneysages
Summary: As eleven year olds, Oliver Wood and Percy Weasley find themselves as dormmates in Gryffindor Tower. As thirteen year olds, Percy's sick of Oliver constantly tracking mud into the dorm. But by the age of twenty, they find themselves - publicly at least - on opposing sides of the Second Wizarding War. This is a story of the evolution of their friendship, from eleven until the end.
1. Year One

So...blame Becca **(Aebbe)** for this.

Without giving too much away, it's the evolution of the friendship between Oliver Wood and Percy Weasley. As we know from canon, they shared a dorm, but whether they were friends or not is unclear.

So the format of this multichap (which was meant to only be a oneshot...) is that each chapter will be a different school year. It'll have a couple of scenes in it; new scenes are marked by .-. whereas developments in the same scene are split by a .

Enjoy!

* * *

Everything from leaving platform nine and three quarters to reaching the Gryffindor first year boys' dormitory is a blur for Oliver Wood. He remembers waving goodbye to his parents and little sister who will never be joining him at Hogwarts, and he vaguely recalls the rolling hills and vast fields that the Hogwarts Express sped through, but they're mere split second memories. He can't recall any of the conversations he had on the train with his best childhood friend, Edward Bones, but he can remember the first time he saw Hogwarts, from the seat in the little boat which crossed the vast lake.

He remembers waiting in a long line for his name to be called, remembers hearing that Edward had been sorted into Hufflepuff, and hoping that he wouldn't trip over on his way towards the Sorting Hat.

He doesn't remember what the hat said to him, but he does remember the result: the cry of _Gryffindor_ , and the resultant cheer which emanated from the table to his left.

As he takes a seat on his bed, Oliver tries to bring back some of the moments of his long, long first day at Hogwarts.

And then a voice.

"Hm, I wonder whether we keep this room, or if we get moved every year," the red-haired boy who Oliver vaguely recognises as being Percy Weasley states, taking a seat on the bed next to Oliver's.

"My brother told me that he stayed in his room every year," another boy, Paul Harrison, says from across the room. "But that's Ravenclaw, so I don't know if that's the same here."

The conversation continues, but Oliver becomes distracted, looking down at his luggage. His owl isn't here – but he expected that she'd have been taken to the Owlery. There's something missing…his broom!

Not caring about the conversation he's interrupting, Oliver shouts, "my broom! Someone's stolen my broom!"

Three of the other four boys rush across, lifting up the various parcels and boxes that consist of Oliver's luggage, looking in vain for a broom-shaped object.

"Maybe it's been left on the train!" is the contribution of Tom Johnson, resident of the bed opposite Oliver's. "I _always_ leave something on the train, my mum's always getting mad about it."

"Or maybe one of the Slytherins took it – my dad told me we can't trust them," Patrick Sullivan calls out. "We should call one of the teachers, they can hunt it down…wait, where's my broom?"

It's only after another minute of the boys searching that they realise one isn't hunting: Percy.

"Your brooms aren't lost, they're just in the Gryffindor broom cupboard," Percy finally says, his voice tinged with the arrogance of knowingness. "That's down by the Quidditch pitch, by the way. My brother told me."

One of the boys mutters, "you could have told us that earlier," evidently irritated, but Oliver doesn't join him. Instead, he's relieved that his broom isn't lost and hasn't been stolen by Slytherins.

"Thanks, Percy," Oliver says, something clicking in his head. Percy. Brother. Weasley. Surely that isn't… "Wait…is your brother _Charlie Weasley_?"

The smug look on Percy's look intensifies as he nods. "Yeah he is. Captain this year, too. Youngest captain _ever_ apparently – he's only a fourth year."

The rest of the boys in the dorm fade away from Oliver's attention as he focuses on the fact that he is _sharing a dorm_ _with_ _Charlie Weasley's brother!_ He's only heard stories about the wonderkid Seeker from his older cousin, who recently graduated; apparently, he's the best Seeker in a century, and could play for England if he wanted to. And now he's in Gryffindor, he could get to _meet_ Charlie, and maybe, just maybe, he could get himself onto the team.

Aware that he probably should say something, Oliver stutters out, "so do you play Quidditch with him when he's home from school? I bet you're really good."

Something in Percy's expression drops as he replies, "only now and then. He doesn't really play at home."

Oliver senses that Percy's not telling the truth, but he doesn't push it. He doesn't want to offend Charlie Weasley's brother – and it wouldn't be very nice to be rude on the first day of term.

So, with difficulty, Oliver pushes all thoughts of Quidditch and the Gryffindor Team and Charlie Weasley out of his head, and starts the monotonous, arduous process of unpacking. Hogwarts life has finally begun.

.-.

They're four weeks into term now, the five Gryffindor boys and their female counterparts, and it's time for their first flying lesson. They're learning with Hufflepuff, something Oliver's particularly pleased about as it means he'll get to see his friend, Edward, again.

This day has been the day he's been looking forward to since the day he received his timetable. He hasn't ridden his broom since he arrived; Professor McGonagall told him that the broom cupboard was out of bounds until Madam Hooch had assessed his proficiency on a broom. Not that that has stopped him trying, of course. He's three detentions down, and will probably receive at least another two before he's allowed into the cupboard.

"Excited?" Oliver says as he turns to Percy on their way down to the Quidditch pitch. There's an extra spring in his step, and his excitement is growing every inch they get closer to the moment when he can touch a broom again.

Percy nods, but there's a distinct lack of enthusiasm. He's the only one in the entire group who doesn't seem particularly bothered about flying lessons – Oliver's pretty sure that he asked Professor McGonagall whether he even had to go.

"I bet you'll be the best of us all," Oliver continues, though he's a little bit jealous. Percy's so good at all of their subjects – even History of Magic – and knows _everything_. Even though Oliver's mum taught him a little bit of magic before Hogwarts, it's still nowhere near enough to compete with Percy. "I mean, Charlie's your _brother_."

In the four weeks he's been at Hogwarts, Oliver's seen Charlie's face five times and come within a metre of him three. The one time that he attempted to speak to Charlie, all that came out was an muttered "Er…..hiyouplayquidditchright?" before he practically ran back to his dorm.

Percy doesn't respond, and Oliver doesn't push him. It's the second time that he's seen Percy behave this way: quiet, unconfident and generally not wanting to be there. The first time was that first day in the dorm, when Oliver mentioned Charlie.

Maybe he's scared of flying? But Oliver disregards this thought; there is no _way_ that Charlie Weasley's brother can be scared of flying.

Before Percy can answer, they're at the location for their flying lesson, and with the clamour of twenty first years together, it's too loud for him to answer. Perhaps this was a deliberate decision, perhaps not, but either way, Oliver doesn't press for an answer. It would be rude, and he wouldn't like it.

Just like he doesn't like the prying questions about his sister.

Another minute passes, and then Madam Hooch is breezing past until she's standing in front of them all.

"Good afternoon, class," she begins, her tone firm. She instantly reminds Oliver of Professor McGonagall – though hopefully she'll be less likely to give him detention. "For some, you will have ridden a broom many times before; for others, you will never have seen a broomstick. For yet others, you may have brought a broom to Hogwarts with you," she continues, and Oliver swears that she looks him directly in the eye for a moment.

"Today, we will consider the basics of flying, with the aim of ensuring you all feel confident and competent sitting upon a broom. Any questions?"

Oliver's hand is the first one in the air. "Can we ride our own brooms?" He's desperate to see his Cleansweep again; ever since he received it for his tenth birthday, they've never been apart.

"Training brooms are provided for all first years until their competency on a broom has been established," Madam Hooch replies.

But after one quick glance at the brooms on the ground, Oliver can't stop himself.

"But they're… _crap_!" he cries, hearing a collective _oooohhh_ emanate from the group surrounding him. "I can fly, I've been flying for years. Why can't I just get my broom from the cupboard?"

Madam Hooch smiles a wry smile, looking more closely at Oliver. "You're the Wood that Professor McGonagall has had in detention three times, I believe, for attempting to enter my cupboard without permission?" she clarifies, and Oliver has to nod. "Well, Mr Wood, perhaps if you learn the meaning of patience, you will gain access to your beloved broom. This, however, will not be today."

Patience has never been something that Oliver's had, particularly where his broom is concerned.

He doesn't pay attention to the rest of what Madam Hooch has to say – it's probably something stupid about how to hold a broom, which he learnt _years_ ago – and only pays attention again when someone taps him on the shoulder.

Percy.

"I, well, do you want to be partners?" Percy asks, and Oliver nods in agreement before realising that he'd previously said he'd work with Edward.

After picking up one of the training brooms each, Oliver and Percy move to a faraway spot on the field. Part of the reason they've gone so far is because Oliver wants to try to get off the ground without Madam Hooch noticing, but he's pretty sure that Percy wanted to be this far out, too.

"Up," Oliver says to his broom, with his hand held out in the air, waiting. It rises immediately.

"Up," Percy says to his broom, with his hand in the air, just like Oliver's.

His broom doesn't move.

"Up," he tries again.

"Up."

"Up."

" _Up_."

"UP!"

And there's still nothing.

Oliver understands now why Percy doesn't like talking about Quidditch and flying, and anything to do with his brother being the team captain. It's because flying is the one thing he can't do.

.

As they're walking back to the castle forty five minutes later, Oliver turns to Percy. After fifteen attempts, the broom did rise into his hand, though that was about as far as they had gotten. In comparison, Wood had risen off the ground on his broom – just a few inches – before Madam Hooch caught him and threatened him with detention.

"Look, Percy," Oliver begins, noting how Percy's shoulders tensed. "Quidditch and flying is the one thing that I can do pretty well. So…I was wondering…" he hesitates, wondering if he should continue.

"Do you want me to coach you?" Oliver blurts it out, wondering if Percy will be offended. In the four weeks they've known one another, any time that _anyone_ has insulted Percy's intelligence, there's been an argument in which Percy has used at least ten words that nobody else understands, just to prove his intelligence.

There's a moment's silence before Percy replies. "Really?"

"Yes really," Oliver replies, his voice firm. "I know loads about why brooms fly and tactics to get them to work better for you – it's all about the confidence. And then I read a book in the summer about formations and how it's better in some games to play with certain formations than others, it was really interesting." Part of him wonders whether Percy will do better if he knows more about the nature and fundamentals of flying – and that's also something that he's pretty knowledgeable on. One of his proudest possessions is _Quidditch through the Ages_ , after all.

"Well, thanks," Percy says, his voice quiet. Then, speaking more loudly, he adds, "I'll tutor you in Transfiguration, of course. Merlin knows you need the help."

It's in this moment that the unlikely friendship between the Quidditch obsessed Oliver Wood and the stubborn yet principled Percy Weasley begins to blossom.

* * *

Please let me know what you think!


	2. Year One, Part Two

This chapter is also set in Oliver's first year.

Thanks to Aebbe for the idea for scene two!

* * *

It's the Easter holidays of his first year at Hogwarts, and Oliver Wood is, unsurprisingly, on his broom.

There's been a bit of a ruckus in his family – his sister's letter with more inkstains than words said something about a fight between his little cousins leading to a problem with their house's plumbing – so he's remained at Hogwarts for the holidays. It's been much more enjoyable than he anticipated; the Quidditch pitch is free four days a week, and three of the other Gryffindor boys, two of the Gryffindor girls, Edward, and Edward's friends have also stayed for the holidays. Though they don't _quite_ have enough players for two full Quidditch teams, there's enough to make it a decent game – and the opportunity to play on a full-sized Quidditch pitch is payment enough for not going home.

To make things more exciting, Oliver's even created a quasi-House Cup. It's more focused on individual players and their skillset, and he's designed it to help people decide which position is best for them. He, of course, knows that he's best at Keeping, though he's keen to try out some different positions – if his friends manage to get their heads around the idea.

He's even managed to get Percy to participate in this, though it took a fair bit of persuasion. Though he's achieved a passable grade in Madam Hooch's flying lessons, Percy's still not particularly fond of flying, and tends to come up with outlandish excuses as to why he can't practice with Oliver.

"I've still got all of McGonagall's essay to write!" Percy cried once, despite having the completed essay in front of him.

"I've got a detention from Professor Binns," was another attempt, although he's widely regarded as being Professor Binns' favourite pupil.

But whether it's the fact that it's the holidays or that he fancies challenging himself, Percy is participating in the almost daily Quidditch "matches".

Why he's here, Oliver isn't sure. Percy hasn't said, and Oliver hasn't asked.

None of the others particularly seem thrilled that Percy's participating – it's quite clear to them all that he's the weakest player, and whilst they like him as a person, they don't want him on their team. Every day, the teams change, and every day, Oliver has to glare at at least three people whose expressions immediately drop the moment that Percy's name is announced.

It's for that reason that Oliver does his best to make sure that Percy has direction on what to do, no matter what position he's in, and that he's included in the team spirit.

"Percy, I'm here!" Oliver shouts at the top of his voice, one hand in the air to signal to him exactly where he is. "Percy, pass me the Quaffle! Percy, Percy, PERCY!"

Percy throws the Quaffle, but the other team intercepts it.

Evidently, Oliver's not subtle enough to succeed as a Chaser.

.

The day after, Oliver's a Beater.

On this occasion, he forgets that Percy isn't on his team when he whacks a Bludger away from him.

Whilst this normally wouldn't be a problem, it just so happens that it whacks it into Fiona Jones, someone who _is_ on his team, and results in a broken arm, concussion, and a day's forced bed rest.

Whoops.

.

On their final Quidditch session of the holidays, Oliver lets people choose which position they wish to play in. Thankfully, nobody else wants to be a Keeper – though whether that's because they really don't want to or whether they think that it's safer to keep Oliver out of a position where he can cause harm is unclear – so Oliver gets his dream role.

Percy's on his team and plays the role of Chaser, which suits him well. Though Oliver wouldn't say that Percy would ever improve enough to be in the same league as Charlie, he's definitely gained in confidence over the two weeks of near constant flying, and Oliver's proud of his friend.

"Jones!" Oliver shouts across the Quidditch pitch, his voice carried by the wind. "Jones! Watch out for Bones!"

His warning comes just in the nick of time for Fiona, who manages to roll out of the way of a Bludger hit at her by Edward. He's his team's captain, and is determined to beat Oliver. Childhood friendships often form intense, albeit friendly, rivalries, and this is certainly one of them. The "Wooden Cup", as Oliver's tournament has come to be known as, will be won by one of them, and their performance in this match will decide the winner.

The rest of the match continues much in this vein, with Oliver shouting words of advice and warning across the pitch at his teammates in between saving the Quaffle. There's no messing around in Quidditch for him; he's not going to accept defeat.

He's hyper-alert of the whereabouts of every single player on the pitch – so focused, in fact, that he doesn't even notice the fact that there's a red-haired boy on the ground, watching his every move.

"YES!" Oliver shrieks, the word becoming lost to the pitch only audible to animals in his excitement at Livvi Miller catching the snitch for his team. "WE WON!" he continues, abandoning his post to gather together all of his teammates in order to celebrate. It's a meaningless victory in the grand scheme of things – but in this moment, it means everything to Oliver Wood.

Percy – the boy who was never expected to participate in the match, let alone score five goals – is the first person Oliver hugs, their embrace causing Percy's broom to take a terrifying nosedive.

Fiona is the second, and somewhere in the garbled words coming out of Oliver's mouth is an apology for when he broke her arm.

After he's hugged the other three members of his team, Oliver flies across the pitch to his counterpart, and best friend, Edward.

"Good game," he says, his tone civil, as he extends a hand out. This is a move that he's noticed at the end of every Quidditch game his mum has taken him to, a mark of respect between the teams.

Edward shakes his hand, a rueful smile on his face, before pulling him in for a hug. "Nice roll when you blocked Harrison earlier – have you been practicing without me?"

"Thanks mate, I saw it in Quidditch Weekly _ages_ ago, and it looked pretty useful!" Oliver replies, his tone ecstatic. It's the "I'm talking about Quidditch" voice, and it's most often used with Edward.

Gradually, the twelve of them make their way down to the ground, and towards the changing rooms. Oliver's the last one to leave the pitch, his gaze longing as he takes in the euphoric moment. Hopefully, there'll be many more moments like this during the next six years – if he makes it onto the team.

A noise to his left startles him out of his trance, and Oliver turns to see nobody other than Charlie Weasley standing there. Like Percy, he hadn't gone home over the holidays, but Oliver's more concerned about whether he can speak like a normal person in Charlie's presence.

"Hey, Wood, how's it going?" Charlie begins the conversation, his tone easy.

Oliver takes a deep breath before speaking, praying in the name of every Quidditch player he knows that he'll be able to speak. "I, erm, good thanks, you?"

Charlie grins. "I've had the pleasure of watching your "Wooden Cup" finale – and I have to say, I'm impressed at what I've seen," he says, and Oliver feels his mouth drop open. "Not only good keeping, but I liked how you worked with your teammates. You even remembered to shake hands with your opponent – which is something that I've forgotten to do in both games so far," he continues.

"I, erm…" is all Oliver manages to say.

"You're good, Wood, especially for a first year. You've got a bit of work to do on your movement around the posts – you tend to leave the right-hand one undefended at times – but I can definitely see you on the team in the future."

Oliver's speechless. Whether this is better than rambling, however, he doesn't know.

"I shouldn't be telling you this, but I'm doing trials for next year's team in June rather than in September," Charlie continues speaking, despite having an extremely unresponsive conversation partner. "And I'm going to be looking for a new Keeper. So keep that in mind. See you, Wood."

There are a million thoughts milling around inside Oliver's head, but only one manages to escape before Charlie leaves.

"How did you know that we were down here?"

Charlie turns back, still grinning. "Percy's been pestering me all holidays to come watch you play, so I thought I better show my face before he goes completely mental at me."

It's in this moment that Oliver realises what a friend he has in Percy Weasley.

.-.

Oliver storms into Professor McGonagall's office, a reluctant Percy in tow, without as much as knocking first.

She raises her eyebrows when she sees the identity of the intruder, before speaking, her tone icy. "Out and knock, Wood, before I have you in detention for the rest of the year."

Oliver doesn't move, his expression filled with rage.

He lifts his hand so that she can see the piece of paper within its grasp, before he starts reciting what it says.

"As of the new academic year, first year students will not be permitted to bring broomsticks with them to Hogwarts. This is a decision which has not been taken lightly, and is based on a series of events which have taken place over recent years. Should your child be in possession of a broomstick upon their first day at Hogwarts, this will be returned home immediately."

McGonagall sighs. "I am perfectly aware of what the letter says, Wood, given that I wrote it."

At this point, Oliver explodes. " _Why_? What does this achieve? All it will do is create a gap between the first years and the rest of the school – there will be less opportunity for them to develop flying skills which will mean that there are less skilled Quidditch players. Flying isn't just something you can pick up on the spot – it has to be developed. It's a CALLING, Professor! You can't just stop first years from having brooms – you already make them have to pass a stupid test to get on it! Why?"

Professor McGonagall, to his surprise, doesn't immediately give him detention. "Four hundred and seventy two."

Oliver pauses the next part of his tirade, confused. "What?"

"Over the course of this year, you have given me four hundred and seventy two reasons why first years should not be permitted broomsticks," she clarifies. "You have been late to my class fourteen times because you 'lost track of time', you have caused damage to Gryffindor Tower's roof in your misguided endeavour to sneak your broomstick into the dormitory, and seventeen people have been injured because of your inability to focus on anyone or anything other than playing Quidditch. So, Wood, _you_ are the reason that first years are no longer permitted brooms."

"But—"

McGonagall rolls her eyes. "Another word and it's detention every night for the rest of term."

Oliver, wisely, stops and storms out of the room, an apologetic Percy pausing to apologise for interrupting McGonagall's private time before scurrying after him.

"It was worth a try," Oliver says, after he's calmed down a little.

Percy snorts. "You wouldn't have achieved anything even if you'd written a full paper on why she was wrong. You've screwed up so much that they've created an entire new rule to stop anyone becoming like you, Oliver. My brothers would be proud."

.-.

May rolls around and brings exams with it.

Oliver's more nervous than he should be – this is the first major test of being a wizard: what if he doesn't do well?

What if he fails?

He can't fail; his sister would do _anything_ to swap places with him, to be welcomed into the Wizarding World as a witch. He can't betray her like this.

"Percy," Oliver begins, hesitating. It's nine pm, and it's long past curfew, but he still doesn't think he knows enough for tomorrow's exam. "What d'you think the odds are of me passing McGonagall's exam?"

"Well, you've mastered all spells to do with changing objects' appearances pretty well, so you should be alright."

"Great."

Percy looks up from his own notes and realises, perhaps for the first time, how stressed Oliver is.

"I think you'll smash it, Oliver," Percy says, his tone sincere. "You've picked up colour changing spells faster than anyone – and _everyone_ knows how hard they are to master. Plus, you've had me as a tutor, and there's no way that you'd fail with _me_ behind you."

For the first time in the thirteen hours and twenty six minutes since the Transfiguration cramming began, Oliver smiles.

Perhaps he'll do alright.

.-.

"PERCY, PERCY!"

Percy jolts awake to the sudden shrieking of his name, with Oliver grinning down at him.

"PERCY!" Oliver adds, just to make sure that he is, indeed, awake.

"What time is it?" Percy mumbles, looking at the watch on his bedside cabinet. "Oliver, it isn't even nine am yet. Please can I go back to sleep?"

Oliver ignores him, his tone betraying his excitement. "I GOT ON THE TEAM, PERCY!" He shouts, surprised at himself that he's managed to keep it quiet for the fifteen seconds he's been in the room already. "I'M THE NEW GRYFFINDOR KEEPER!"

At this point, the rest of the Gryffindor boys get up and crowd around Percy's bed, shouting and clapping their congratulations to Oliver.

"Congratulations!" Percy exclaims, struggling to sit upright. "Did many turn out?"

Oliver grins, belatedly realising that his broom is still over his shoulder. "Three other people went for Keeper – Fiona, then some fifth years – but they all let in at least two goals. I got a clean sheet! I'M ON THE TEAM, PERCY!"

The five boys continue to discuss the ins and outs of the trial – with more than a little embellishment from Oliver – for the last four days of term, until Professor McGonagall tells them that if she hears one more word from any of them about Quidditch, there will be no more Gryffindor Quidditch Team.


	3. Year Two

Apologies for the delay - I've managed to get myself back into writing historical articles again, which means less time for Oliver unfortunately!

* * *

Second year rolls around, and with it comes a new and improved Oliver Wood – at least in terms of his Quidditch abilities.

For most of the summer holidays, he's been reading up on Quidditch techniques, keen to master new moves to prove to Charlie Weasley that he deserves to be on the team. He's used every Knut of his pocket money to buy tickets to see his favourite team, the Montrose Magpies, fifteen times over the holidays, something which led to his mother suggesting (unfortunately sarcastically) that he may as well buy a seat in the stadium.

Another highlight for Oliver has been seeing his friends. Patrick Sullivan, fellow Gryffindor second year, only lives about an hour away, so they've met up a few times. Of course, he's spent a lot of time with Edward Bones, his childhood best friend – with most of it spent on a broom, as usual – and it's been fun for Oliver to have two friends from different circles spend time together. He doubts that they'll stay particularly close when back at Hogwarts, but Patrick and Edward are fast on the way to becoming friends when they depart Oliver's home in mid-July.

The beginning of August brings Oliver's invitation to the legendary Burrow.

He spends a week surrounded by more red haired wizards than he's previously ever seen – including a pair of ten-year-old twins who will certainly wreak havoc when they arrive at Hogwarts. It's a week of laughter, fun – and, above all, Quidditch.

The first time that he sets up in position as Keeper, paired with the legendary Charlie Weasley, it takes more than a few seconds to really process it. He is playing with a legend – with _the_ Charlie Weasley – and it's something which he's going to have to get used to.

The summer is summer though, so he thinks that it's alright to still be a little dumbstruck in the presence of the greatest Quidditch player currently at Hogwarts, even if this amuses his brothers.

Before he knows it, he's at Kings Cross, ready to board the Hogwarts Express to head to his second year at Hogwarts.

"Have a wonderful time," his mother whispers into his hair. "And don't spend _all_ of your time thinking about Quidditch!"

"Maybe just ninety five percent," his father jokes, pulling Oliver in for a hug of his own. "Don't forget to think seriously about choosing Arithmancy for next year." His father is big in the statistical department of the Ministry of Magic, and is keen for Oliver to join him.

The final person Oliver says goodbye to is his sister.

"Miss you already," Freya says, reaching up for his shoulders. He's only four years older than her, but there's a good two feet difference between their heights. "Send me lots of letters!"

"I will," Oliver promises, as serious as ever. If there's one person he'll never break a promise to, it's Freya. "Make sure you work hard in numeracy."

Then the whistle sounds, and it's time to say the final, _final_ goodbyes for the year, and to relocate the compartment that the Gryffindor boys claimed at 10:25am. Well, Percy claimed it for them, saying that this particular cabin has 'special meaning' to the Weasley clan, and it's _his_ turn to claim it, given that Bill's busy with Head Boy duties, and Charlie's not particularly bothered.

"I hope that my broom's safe," Oliver mutters as he enters the compartment, taking a seat next to Tom Johnson. "The person who took my trunk just _threw_ it onto the pile."

Percy chuckles, a noise which Oliver has only heard old men and Percy make. It suits him. "I bet they'll see that it's your broom, then take extra special care with it, just to avoid you shouting at them all year."

"Yeah, didn't you like annoy McGonagall about the first year broom ban so much that she banned you from Transfiguration lessons for the last week of term?" Patrick responds, a glint in his eye.

A voice interrupts them from the corridor. "I'm sure I heard her threaten to burn your broom to ashes if you even think of mentioning the first year ban this term, Wood," says Fiona Jones, a fellow Gryffindor second year. "Hey guys, how's it going?"

Oliver shakes his head. "It's not fair, like I looked into the statistics and twenty two percent of new Quidditch players join in either their first or second year! If we only let first years ride in flying lessons, then who's going to _actually_ be good enough to join the team the year after?"

Most of his friends groan. Whilst also Quidditch fans, they're nowhere near his level of dedication; when he starts mentioning statistics is usually when the rest of them zone out.

"Wood, I'm going to bet you a Galleon that you can't go the rest of the journey without mentioning Quidditch," Patrick says, reaching into his pocket to get a coin out.

"Pfff!" Percy snorts. "I don't think he said more than three words on a topic other than Qudiditch over the holidays."

Oliver pipes up. "Deal," he replies to Patrick, looking his friend directly in the eye. "I can definitely talk about other things."

It turns out, for the next forty five minutes, that he _can_ talk about something other than Quidditch. He has to stop himself bringing in his favourite sport to the conversation a few times (fourteen times, to be precise), and it's obvious to start with that his friends are trying to goad him into talking about it, but he succeeds.

Or, rather, he succeeds until Charlie Weasley rocks up.

"Hey lads," the older, taller boy says as he enters the train compartment. "Perce, you took my sandwiches by accident. Can I have them?"

After a brief conversation where Percy insists he didn't take the wrong sandwiches – "if you're really so fussy about tuna, Charlie, you should have picked up your own sandwiches rather than trusting Fred to get them for you!" – Charlie makes to leave the second years until he spots Oliver.

"Wood, how's it going?" Charlie asks, his tone genuinely friendly. Over the course of the week at the Burrow, he had spoken to Oliver multiple times, and Oliver no longer felt gripping fear about joining the (much older) Gryffindor Quidditch team. He mimes throwing a Quaffle at Oliver, his movement extremely fast.

"Not bad thanks, you?" Oliver responds, acting out a block of the Quaffle.

"Yeah good thanks, just catching up some of the team on what you're like as a Keeper. Told them about that Sloth-Grip Roll you did over at ours, they couldn't believe that you'd managed it when you were blocking penalties. Did you get chance to read that article in Quidditch Weekly about Adrian Lynch using that new flip in the Ireland-USA game last week?"

Oliver blushes a little at the thought of the older students talking about him, but he's also a little thrilled; at least it shows he's worthy of being on the team, not just because he's the Captain's brother's friend.

"Yeah it was really good! It's going to be hard to block if the Slytherin Chasers get wind of it – is it right that all of last year's Chasers are staying on their team?" Oliver knows the answer, but figures it's probably more socially acceptable to at least _pretend_ that he hasn't created full factfiles on the other teams.

Charlie grins. "Shouldn't be surprised you've read it – you probably know more about it than Lynch does! But if anyone can block it, I'm sure you can," Charlie notes proudly. "We've got the strongest team in about five years this year…but anyway, best be off, see you later, kiddos."

Within a few seconds, the older boy has left. As soon as he does so, Patrick, Colin and Fiona look at Oliver, their expressions triumphant.

"Told ya," Fiona sings. "Now cough up."

Oliver looks at Percy. "Percy, tell them that it's not my fault, I _had_ to talk Quidditch with Charlie!"

Percy shakes his head. "Rules are rules and bets are bets," Percy responds seriously. "Don't enter into a contractual agreement unless you – _hey_ , why are you laughing?"

The argument only ends when Bill Weasley pokes his head through the door. "Oi, I can hear you down in the next carriage, what do you guys think you're playing at? Wait…Percy?" Head Boy Bill's tone goes from irritated to almost amused at the sight of his younger brother. "Never mind. Just keep it quiet, and whoever lost the bet, cough up. Unless Perce is the winner, obviously."

That soon shuts everyone up.

…

It takes until the weekend of the second week at Hogwarts for Oliver's early morning Quidditch practice to cause strife in the dorm.

"WOOD, WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" Percy's voice is angry as he shouts across the room at an Oliver who is on his way out of the door.

He turns back to see a red-haired boy with askew glasses emerge from his bed.

"What?" Oliver asks, innocently. He speaks quietly; he's on his way down to the Quidditch pitch to get a few laps in before the rest of the team join. It's only been two weeks, so it makes sense that he isn't fully comfortable within the team yet, but he still enjoys flying alone.

"It's five o'clock in the morning, Oliver, so why are you clattering around and singing non-stop?" As Percy continues his tirade, one of the other boys emerges from his bed, also.

"Yeah, Wood, just go back to bed," Patrick says, yawning through the second part of the sentence. "Perce, shut it as well will you?"

"Sorry," Oliver mutters as he turns back to the door to exit the dorm. "I'll see you guys later."

He's not entirely certain, but Oliver thinks he hears Percy mutter "bloody Quidditch players" under his breath as he gets back into bed.

.

It takes until week three, in the aftermath of a particular muddy Quidditch practice, for Percy to explode at Oliver during daylight hours.

As Oliver arrives back into the dorm after a particularly muddy Quidditch session – Charlie thought it wise for the team to have a go at Quidditch on foot in order to build team spirit – he's elated. He's thoroughly enjoyed his practice, and, for the first time, he felt included on the group's walk back to Gryffindor Tower. It doesn't quite feel like the team he had during the Wooden Cup in the Easter holidays, but he's sure that he'll forge some more bonds soon.

This elation, however, is soon paused when Percy looks up.

"How was practice?" Percy's tone begins cordially until he both takes in Oliver's general appearance, and the path of mud which marks out his path into the dorm. "Why are you covered in mud, Wood? This is about the tenth time since we came back that you've just left a trail of dirt in from outside – what sort of example is that for the first years?"

Oliver absently notes that the only time Percy calls him 'Wood' is when he's angry. "Don't think there are any first years in here, Perce," he responds, trying to speak jovially in order to lighten the mood.

It doesn't work.

"THAT ISN'T THE POINT!" Percy bellows, the loudest that Oliver has ever heard him shout. "The _point_ is that you've ignored what we've asked you to do – to not make the dorm really dirty! You're just a fiend – a _usurper_!"

At this, the rest of the boys poke their heads out of the curtains surrounding their beds, Patrick and Tom in particular looking as though they've just woken up.

"But I'm not… _that_ dirty?" Oliver tries to respond hopefully, running a hand through his hair as he speaks. He realises this was a mistake, however, when all this does is cause droplets of dirty water to fly through the air.

Percy shoots him a death stare.

"I rest my case, _usurper_."

Oliver isn't sure what usurper means, but with the mood Percy's in (rightly so, he has to admit to himself), he figures it isn't the best time to ask him.

"I'll go get a shower," Oliver says, admitting defeat. "I'm sorry to have made the place dirty, I didn't mean to."

Nobody replies.

.

A freshly washed and dried Oliver returns to the dorm almost forty minutes later to find only one bed occupied still: Percy's.

"I know you're right and I've been really selfish and I'm sorry," Oliver begins as soon as he notices Percy, not wanting him to start shouting again. "I just got really excited about getting to play Quidditch and then I was talking to the team and it felt like we were teammates properly, which was really cool! So I wanted to come tell you all before I got a shower – and I didn't think about the mud. I'm sorry if I got mud on any of your stuff."

Percy looks up, giving Oliver the look that he _thinks_ means that his friend has forgiven him but he isn't going to show it yet. It's a look that Oliver's increasingly exposed to.

"Well…I suppose that's okay," Percy replies, his tone grudging. "Just don't do it again, please. Do you want to come for breakfast?"

Oliver knows that he's not fully forgiven yet, but he's keen to build bridges with his friend, so eagerly accepts Percy's offer. He's pleased that, even though he made a mistake, it hasn't harmed his friendship with Percy.

…

"Oliver, would you pass the pumpkin juice?" Percy says to his friend, though Oliver doesn't hear him.

So he repeats it. And then repeats it again.

"Ow!" Oliver half-shouts, gaining the attention of half of the table, as Percy pinches his arm. "What was that for?"

"You wouldn't respond to anything so I figured that that'd get your attention," Percy replies, his tone matter of fact. "Are you doing okay? And can I have the pumpkin juice?"

Oliver nods slowly, breathing in and out as deeply as possible. It's the morning of his first Quidditch game as Keeper, and he's suddenly wondering whether he should be doing this. He's only twelve, for Merlin's sake; how can he expect to play well against Slytherin Chasers who are practically adults? He can't remember the last time that he was nervous to play Quidditch, but right now, he'd give anything to have fifty-five years of experience of Keeping before he has to play in this game.

He's vaguely aware of Percy saying something else, but he shakes his head, hoping that this is the right response.

It isn't.

Only when Oliver hears the voice of his Captain does he turn round properly.

"Hey, Wood," Charlie says, his voice relatively gentle. "Grab yourself a slice of toast – or just take Percy's, it's easier – and come with me." He doesn't leave room for Oliver to say no, just waits patiently for the few seconds it takes for Oliver to get his legs to cooperate enough to get out of the bench.

Only when they're outside of the Hall, therefore away from prying eyes and ears, does Charlie begin to talk. "Nervous, huh?"

"Just a bit," Oliver mutters, looking down at his bacon sandwich-toast concoction that Percy had passed him.

"That's normal," Charlie says, putting his hand on Oliver's shoulder. "I could tell you stories about the rest of the team's first games – think I've seen half of the lads throw up and cry, and at least two girls grip their brooms so hard that they've broken. But I'll tell you about my first game – at Hogwarts, at least."

Oliver nods again, averting his gaze from the mirrors in front of him. He doesn't want to see whether he's as green as he feels.

They turn into the corridor heading down to the grounds, the air crisp and refreshing.

"So, back when I was young and innocent, I managed to get a place on the team," Charlie begins. "And I almost threw up about fourteen times in the hours before the match. I didn't sleep, I just imagined what could go wrong. My captain did exactly this – she took me down to the grounds to try and calm me down. It worked, until I got in the air for the pre-match fly-around." Charlie smiles.

"What happened?" Oliver asks, his curiosity piqued.

"I'd left my wand in my back pocket and, as I swung around, it somehow managed to fire a spell of some sort at the staff stand," Charlie replies, just about stifling a laugh. "It took them four hours to calm the crowd down enough for the game to go ahead – though McGonagall herself made sure that my wand was safely locked in the Gryffindor dorms. Thought I was going to get kicked off the team for sure, but apparently I wasn't the first newbie to make the wand in back pocket mistake. I just didn't lose my buttock doing so."

Oliver smiles slightly. He doesn't exactly feel reassured – as far as motivating speeches go, this probably wouldn't win any prizes – but at least it's normal for him to feel nervous. And, hopefully, he won't set the stands on fire or knock over any rings, or do anything ridiculous like that.

Fingers crossed, anyway.

.

There are no words for the feeling of flying in front of so many people, at least none that come to Oliver mid-flight. They're only midway through the warm up fly-around, a move done to help new players adjust to playing Quidditch in front of an audience, and yet Oliver feels like he's on top of the world.

Then the whistle sounds to signal the start of the game, Charlie shaking hands with Parkinson, the Slytherin Captain, and the balls are released.

It takes no effort at all to follow the Quaffle with his eyes, to assess whether it's likely that the Slytherin Chasers will get the ball up the field before he can move to the other post. He's circling, just as Charlie taught him to, and _it's all going so well!_

That is, of course, until the Bludger appears out of nowhere and hits him in the side of the head, sending him plummeting to the ground.

…

Oliver wakes up with a start, confused. He's playing Quidditch, he's facing the crowed and cheering – he's just helped Gryffindor win the game!

Then he opens his eyes properly and sees the Hospital Wing, and a familiar figure sat to the side of the bed. Percy.

"You're awake!" Percy cries, before immediately clapping a hand over his mouth. Too loud – Madam Pomfrey will have heard. "Thank Merlin you're alright – it's been a week!"

"A week?" Oliver gasps, his throat dry. He's been out cold for a _week_! "What happened in the game?" Now he thinks about it, it's just a blacked out blur of a bit of flying and a bit of falling – and a bit of cheering, for good measure.

"You were great!" Percy immediately says, though his voice is full of the false cheeriness that Oliver has come to associate with lies.

"Really?" Oliver asks. He wants water, but he wants to know about the game he can't remember first.

Percy's face drops a little, but he nods. "Yeah. You were great! I mean…well…you got hit in the side of the head by a bludger two minutes in, but before that, you were doing great. Didn't let a goal in or anything!"

Hit in the head by a bludger two minutes in. Well, it couldn't get any worse, could it? Not only did he fail to actually do any Keeping, his injury's probably meant that Gryffindor have suffered the worst defeat since Charlie Weasley took over. Maybe even since the days of James Potter, a Captain who may have only suffered two defeats throughout his time on the team but suffered a loss of almost one thousand points.

"He's awake – you should have said!" Madam Pomfrey's voice startles Oliver, causing him to jolt his head. And moving it hurts – a lot. "Out, out! You can come back when he's better!" She motions at Percy, shaking her head and tutting.

Oliver vaguely notices that Percy says something about Quidditch and the team and coming back later, but he doesn't respond; he doesn't think that anything could make him feel better after this.


	4. Year Two, Part Two

Apologies for the long wait since the last update; I'm currently touring the US of A, and it's hard to fit in writing. Hope you enjoy the chapter!

* * *

"Wood?" McGonagall's voice is gentle – gentler than Wood thinks he's ever heard it – as she addresses him. They're stood in the first floor hallway, not too far away from her office and classroom, and Wood isn't entirely sure why she wants to talk to him.

Unless she wants to berate him for what happened in the Quidditch game. He didn't even manage to stay upright for five minutes – Merlin only knows how many goals Gryffindor conceded because of it. Well, actually, he does know: thirty five.

Because of him, Charlie Weasley's suffered his first major defeat as Quidditch Captain, Gryffindor are at the very bottom of the league table, and Slytherins have more ammunition than ever to attack his house. It wouldn't be surprising if McGonagall wanted him off the team…he's pretty sure he doesn't deserve to be on it.

"Yes, Professor?" Oliver replies, his voice quiet. It's more of a mumble, actually, and he doesn't look up from his feet.

"Come into my office, Wood," McGonagall states, her tone still friendly but a little firmer. It's clear that she won't take no for an answer – not that he'd be willing to fight with her today, anyway.

Without saying anything, Oliver turns and shuffles along behind her for the short walk down to her office, his head bowed and his hands in his pockets. He never expected to be kicked off the team like this – without even fighting it. As, realistically, there's nothing he can say; he deserves it.

"Take a seat, Wood – and for heaven's sake look at something other than the floor," McGonagall continues, shutting the door behind her before crossing the room to sit behind her desk.

Slowly, Oliver raises his gaze from the floor to the ordered, near empty desk directly in front of him, though he doesn't quite manage to meet McGonagall's gaze. He doesn't say anything, though, merely sits and looks blankly at a piece of parchment that would be difficult to read the right way up, let alone upside down.

"Are you alright, Wood?" McGonagall says, when it becomes clear that only she will break the growing silence in the room.

It takes him a couple of seconds to reply. "Yes, Professor, I'm fine."

She snorts at this, and it's so unexpected that Oliver actually lifts his head in shock. McGonagall snorting? Surely this is unheard of, at least for second years.

"Wood, you spent an entire lesson _doing work_ without mentioning Quidditch or your latest manoeuvre once," she replies, her tone incredulous. "If there was ever criteria to suggest that you are not okay, that would certainly be high on there."

He doesn't say anything, doesn't know what to say. He entered the room expecting to be told that he was to no longer be the Gryffindor Keeper (and to leave immediately after), and instead…McGonagall is asking how he is.

"Have a biscuit, Wood."

"No thanks."

"Have a biscuit, Wood." Her tone is firmer this time, and she actually lifts the open tin and places it directly in front of his face. There's no way he can escape this time.

Slowly, Oliver reaches out and takes a digestive, holding it gingerly. Only when it becomes clear that McGonagall won't move the tin until he at least takes a bite does he take one.

"Areyoutakingmeofftheteam?" Oliver mutters, with the bite of biscuit still in his mouth. He didn't mean to ask, but he doesn't want to prolong his agony. If he's being taken off, he wants to go and find somewhere to hide for about four weeks, until he can face his peers again.

Hesitantly, he looks up at McGonagall's face to find her expression incredulous.

"Why would I be taking you off the team, Wood?"

He can feel himself blushing, but he just about manages to keep eye contact.

"Well...I...well...I didn't manage to stop any goals and I fell off the broom, so I sort of just thought that I'd be replaced...with someone who doesn't." His voice is almost inaudible by the end, and he can't look at McGonagall anymore; his attention instead reverts back to the tidy desktop.

There's a lengthy silence, and Wood isn't sure what is happening or what is going to happen; all he knows is that it's very awkward, and he wishes he could just leave the room and never come back.

"Listen to me, Oliver Wood, and listen very closely." McGonagall's voice is...different. He doesn't know how - but there's a quality to it that he would never have associated with his strict Head of House. "You have played one game for Gryffindor, where you were unfortunate to have been attacked by the other team. It was a deliberate attack on the newest member of our team - not even a more experienced player would have been able to avoid the bludger. Why on earth would you think I would overrule Charlie Weasley and remove you from the team because of an _accident_?"

Oliver continues to look at the desk, not daring to speak.

"Now that this is settled, I expect you to be more like yourself, Wood," McGonagall continues, when it becomes clear that the conversation is almost entirely one-sided. "Whilst it was enjoyable to have a lesson without any Quidditch interruptions, I would almost prefer to hear an analysis of a sloth-grip roll in comparison to this silence. It's very unlike you."

She stands up, and Oliver takes this as his cue to stand up. He's not entirely sure that he believes that he'll still be on the team come dinner time - Charlie is still the captain, after all - but at least McGonagall is on his side. He thinks, anyway.

Oliver stands up slowly, and makes eye contact once again with McGonagall, who smiles a little.

"Thanks, professor," he mumbles as he makes his way towards the door. "I do appreciate it, really."

"Don't tell everyone about the biscuits," McGonagall warns, seconds before Oliver leaves the room. "I only have a limited supply until the Christmas holidays - I can't afford to run out."

Oliver's not entirely sure he believes her.

.

Later that day, Oliver makes his way down to the Great Hall for dinner. He's made a series of excuses to his fellow Gryffindors to avoid spending time with them; despite the conversation with his Head of House earlier, he still blames himself for the catastrophic loss. It seems pretty straightforward to him: he fell off his broom, leaving his team without a Keeper, meaning the team suffered its worst defeat.

However, he's determined to at least pretend that the issue isn't bothering him, particularly whilst he's in the Great Hall. Though he can't be certain, Oliver's pretty sure that McGonagall will be trying to work out whether he has taken on board her advice from earlier. Whilst it was nice to know that his stern Head of House actually cares about him, it was still a little weird - and not something he would want to repeat in the middle of a hall of his peers.

As he approaches the Gryffindor table, he stops in his tracks, causing the person behind him to crash into his back. He can't approach his friends, all of whom are grouped together towards the centre of the table, because sitting right next to Percy is his older brother, Charlie. Who is sure to be disappointed in Oliver, no matter what rhetoric he speaks. Whose very presence makes Oliver want to run straight out of the hall.

Before he can even think about abandoning the room, however, Charlie turns around with a smile.

"Ah, Wood, I was beginning to get worried that Peeves had locked you in the dungeons," Charlie says, causing his younger brother to splutter loudly. "Perce, shift over a bit, let your friend sit down. It's not very fun to try and eat roast beef and gravy when you're standing up."

As Percy begins to shift over, Oliver shakes his head and mutters, "it's fine, Percy, don't bother...I'm not hungry anyway."

"But it's your favourite?" Percy replies, his voice betraying his confusion. "And I didn't see you at lunch either - you must be starving!"

With this, Charlie turns to face Oliver again, his expression thoughtful.

"Actually, yeah I'm not that hungry either," Charlie comments, though Oliver can see that the plate is still half full. "Fancy going for a walk, Oliver? I could use some fresh air."

The inflection within Charlie's voice indicates to Oliver that he doesn't really have a choice in the matter; indeed, they're outside of the Great Hall in less than a minute, with Charlie setting a brisk pace towards the side door.

"So you missed practice today," Charlie begins, his voice perfectly steady. "Everything okay?"

Oliver nods.

"You know, pal, it's pretty hard to have a conversation when only one person's talking."

Oliver blushes. "Sorry," he mumbles.

They come to a sudden stop approximately one hundred metres from the Quidditch pitch. Just being this close, Oliver can feel his chest getting tighter, his breathing more rapid. He wants to be here...but how can he be?

"Look, Oliver, I'm not going to pretend that I'm great at pep talks and stuff - I'm fifteen, not a superhero," Charlie continues, looking Oliver directly in the eyes. "But I know that you're beating yourself up over what happened, no matter what anyone says to you. So let me say it to you: _it was not your fault_."

"Yes it was!" Oliver exclaims, half-shouting. "If I'd been older, better, maybe I could have missed the Bludger. And if not, maybe I could have stayed on the broom."

Charlie smiles, which annoys Oliver more than the pep talk. "Kid, you got on the team because you were the best of the players who turned out. Plus, I'd seen you play, so I knew it wasn't just a fluke performance."

"But…" Oliver begins, but Charlie cuts him off.

"You know who James Potter is, right?"

Oliver nods. How could he _not_ know of the legendary James Potter?

"So he was the Gryffindor Captain a few years back, obviously before my time here," Charlie begins. "And he was a pretty darn awesome Chaser apparently, as well as Captain. But his first game in charge, things went completely pear shaped for him. I mean completely. Every single thing that could go wrong did. He lost the game by over six hundred points.

"He was devastated. But did he let it get him down? No. In fact, he led the team to the greatest comeback in Hogwarts history - he snatched the title at the end of the year by ten points."

Oliver smiles. He hadn't ever heard this story of the ultimate Chaser, James Potter, before this point.

"So what I'm trying to say, Oliver, is that even though you had a bad game, it isn't your fault. And you shouldn't beat yourself up over it because we've got another two games to pull it out of the bag. And we will." Charlie grins.

Oliver nods again, his brow furrowed. "I guess you're right," he says slowly. "I didn't _intentionally_ fall off my broom - next time I'll be so much better!"

And for the first time, he believes it.

"Good," Charlie replies, taking a step away from the pitch towards the castle. "Now come on and get some food, I can't have my star Keeper starving."

They walk back to the castle together, chatting about statistics and the likelihood of Puddlemere United being promoted, until it hits Oliver.

"Charlie, how did you know that I was mad at myself about the game?" He has to ask. He's a twelve year old boy, after all; inquisitive is his middle name.

"Well it was pretty obvious," Charlie replies. "But my brother was really worried about you. I haven't seen him this worried since the Minister for Magic got lost Apparating home from America. He's a good once to have around, kid."

Before Oliver can say anything else, Charlie has disappeared into the swarm of students entering the Great Hall, leaving Oliver to think about how lucky he is to have a friend like Percy Weasley.

* * *

"Can you pass me the turkey?" Percy asks Oliver, shouting to be heard over the ruckus that is the Hogwarts Christmas Feast.

Unfortunately for the Gryffindor boys, their greatest rivals are standing directly behind them.

"You trust Wood with passing you something?" A voice says, one which Oliver identifies as belonging to Marcus Flint, Slytherin Chaser.

"Yeah, I think it's more likely that he's going to fall on the floor and cry than you get some turkey," another boy, Graham Montague, adds. "Not that you need the turkey anyway, Weasley."

Oliver blushes, though his hands ball up into fists. One quick glance at the staff table indicates that nobody is looking their way - not even the raven-sharp McGonagall has noticed a problem - so he prepares to take matters into his own hands.

Before he can, however, Percy's standing up and facing the two boys.

"Leave him alone," Percy says, his voice sharp and authoritative. "Did you get lost on your way to the Slytherin table again? As that's pretty common for you both, isn't it?"

He is, of course, referencing to the fact that the entire Slytherin team camped out near the Gryffindor table in the aftermath of Oliver's accident, only leaving when McGonagall threatened to shut down their Quidditch team.

"It speaks!" Flint shoots back, his tone barbed. "We always just thought that you were the mute geek Weasley."

"Mute, badly dressed geek Weasley," Montague adds. "Who apparently can't fly."

"What a loser," Flint continues, mocking now. "I guess it was just too hard to live up to his better older brothers."

This time, Oliver doesn't look up at the teachers' table before retaliating. Instead, he stands up, turns around and digs his wand out of his pocket. Before the older boys have time to react, he shouts, " _petrificus totalus!_ "

Immediately, Flint falls to the ground, his arms by his sides and his legs locked together.

Unfortunately for Oliver, McGonagall must have noticed the Slytherin boys loitering, and is only seconds away when he casts his spell.

"Wood!" She shouts, her wand out and pointed down at Flint to perform the counterspell. "Detention for a week. What on earth made you think it would be appropriate to curse a fellow student at dinner?"

"He started it, Professor," Oliver attempts to argue, albeit in vain. He's still riled up, furious on behalf of his friend for wizarding prejudice.

McGonagall shoots him a fiercely angry look. "There are no excuses, Wood. Now sit down before I make it a _month_ of detentions. Same to you, Weasley." Her attention turns to Flint and Montague as she says, "if I see either of you on this side of the hall again, it will be detention for a week. Am I clear?"

Both Oliver and Percy sit back down, their friends silent in awe (and probably shock), with their forks halfway to their mouths. The offending turkey is still to Oliver's right, so he takes advantage of the lack of movement to pick it up and pass it to Percy.

"Thanks for that," Percy mutters as their friends start their conversations again. "You shouldn't have jinxed him, but thanks."

"What are friends for?" Oliver replies, smiling. "And detention with McGonagall gives me a chance to put forward my proposals for first year broom restrictions again. I've developed some new ideas and…"

"If you mention that to her again, I don't think _you_ will ever be allowed a broom again," Percy laughs, stuffing a piece of turkey into his mouth.

"Just you wait and see, Perce."

* * *

"Oliver, did you actually go to bed last night?" Percy asks as he makes his way down into the Gryffindor Common Room to see his friend,

Oliver yawns, shaking his head as he runs a hand through his now very messy hair. "No, I didn't have time," he says through his yawn. "I finished the flyers at about two am, and had the banner enchanted by three, but it took me ages to figure out how to multiply the number of flyers. I screwed up a few times."

"Is it really that important?" Percy pleads, though there's a note of defeat in his voice.

Oliver stands up at this, his expression defiant. "Of course it is, Percy! The rights of others should not be infringed on because McGonagall doesn't want first years flying - or even anyone other than the Quidditch team! It's stifling young talent, and I will not stand for it!"

"Someone's been reading the dictionary," Patrick Sullivan, fellow second year, jokes as he jumps down the last few steps of the dormitory stairs. "I wouldn't have thought you would know what a dictionary _was_ to be honest."

Oliver ignores the friendly jibe, and instead passes a bunch of flyers to both Patrick and Percy.

"So, I think I've got the key points down, and it's pretty accessible. It might be a struggle to get the sixth and seventh years to support it as they're almost gone - they don't necessarily care about the longevity of the sport - but we shouldn't give up. Their voices could really add some weight to our campaign."

Oliver watches in anticipation as his friends read through the document.

"Oliver...are you _sure_ you can say these things on a flyer?" Percy asks, his voice wary. "You've said that 'the ban on first years flying is likely to lead to lead to a situation in the near future where there aren't enough Quidditch players to run the tournament'. Is that actually likely to happen?"

"Yeah, actually, because she's trying to restrict access to brooms for people like you, who aren't on the team," Oliver explains anxiously. "And if that happens and someone gets on the team but actually doesn't want to play, there's going to be less people to replace them as they can't fly. It's all very logical really: McGonagall's aim is to remove Quidditch from the face of Hogwarts."

His friends are unresponsive, stunned by Oliver's revelation of his theory for McGonagall's ban. Unfortunately for him, his other friends respond much faster.

"You've completely lost it, Ol," Fiona Jones comments as she takes a piece of parchment from Patrick's hand. "There's no way that McGonagall is going to let you spread this campaign... _and_ she's going to make your life hell in Transfiguration. You'd be best to give up before you begin."

"That's why I'm not asking for permission - _or_ going to class," Oliver replies proudly. "I figured that if I'm not there - if I'm campaigning instead - she can't get mad at me."

His friends exchange looks, though Oliver is unconcerned. He knows that they're probably not going to wholeheartedly support him in this venture; he's the only Quidditch player after all, and they just don't get why it's so important to him.

"She's going to murder you, Oliver," Patrick warns, though he keeps a tight grip on the flyers in his hand. "And she'll end up murdering us all along with you."

For the first time, Oliver smiles. "What...you're going to campaign with me?"

Percy takes a deep breath before replying, twiddling with a piece of lint in his left hand jacket pocket. "I...I can't skip lessons, I'm sorry. But I'll campaign with you at break time and after classes, when there's more people around."

"Same," Fiona adds, jumping lithely over the sofa to where Oliver's makeshift work station lies, a random mixture of craft supplies and books. "You know I think you're barking, Ol. But there's no stopping you when you get like this, so I might as well get a front row seat for when McGonagall finds out about this."

.

All in all, twelve first and second year students commence the campaign on the first Monday in May, everything spearheaded by Oliver. It's relatively coherent - indeed, he thinks his father would be proud of the organisation involved in getting everyone and everything right where it needs to be.

The campaign starts at breakfast, where Oliver proudly displays his banner above the door into the Great Hall. Fiona and Paul grab food for everyone from inside the hall, whilst the others stand outside the door, setting up their posters. They start to hand out flyers to intrigued students passing by, though they make a deliberate point of not even making eye contact with Marcus Flint or Graham Montague.

Meanwhile, Oliver's busy with some semi-permanent sticking charms, affixing the banner and some key pieces of propaganda to the walls and floor of the Entrance Hall. He's practised this spell more than any other over the last few weeks, and can safely say that he's a master of sticking charms.

"Wood, what is the meaning of this?" Almost immediately after the group had finished setting up their displays, McGonagall appears outside the hall, her expression disapproving.

Oliver swallows before he speaks. "I disapprove of your refusal to let first years fly - and same for non-Quidditch players. It is an infringement of their rights, per Wizarding Law #1235 of 1276, and is stifling an extremely important field in magical culture." He just about manages to pronounce the words he managed to memorise in preparation for this meeting, and he notices his teacher's expression is almost amused.

"Why am I not surprised?" McGonagall mutters, turning away from Oliver to face the others. "Very well, I understand that Wood has no regard for rules or authority, but what about the rest of you. Weasley, I'm surprised to see you here."

Percy blushes, his lanky frame attempting to melt into the background somewhat, but he doesn't move. "I...I think more people should be allowed to ride brooms...if they want to," he replies, his voice barely audible.

With a stern look at the students, McGonagall turns back to Oliver. "I expect this foolery to be over in time for class, Mr Wood. If not, there will be consequences."

Nobody responds, though Oliver continues to stare directly into the professor's face until she spins around and returns to the Great Hall. On her way, however, she barks, "no food outside of the hall, Jones, Harrison!"

All in all, Oliver thinks that the campaign's first day has gone remarkably well.

.

"If you thought McGonagall was mad before, you should have seen her face when you didn't come into class today," Percy comments to Oliver as he takes a seat next to him in the Gryffindor Common Room. The room's empty save for the two of them, which is why Oliver's decided to take a short break from recruiting. It isn't worth the hassle to go out into the corridors after hours; cleaning silverware with Filch is not worth trying to get a Hufflepuff on his side.

"What did she say?" Oliver asks, mid-yawn.

"Nothing...but you could just tell. It was as if you'd killed somebody, really...the exploding 'oppose McGonagall' cracker you left in there was maybe a bit much, though." Percy's rambling by the end, though he deigns to keep quiet about the fact that Oliver's other pranks didn't exactly go according to plan during the lesson.

Oliver shrugs. "That's fine. I knew she'd hate me for it, I just need her to come around. She might like me again by O. . Maybe."

Suddenly, there's a flash of light in the air above the sofa they're sitting on, and a parchment envelope appears. It floats slowly down into Oliver's lap, which allows him to see that the letter is addressed to him. _Mr Oliver Wood_ is written on the front in purple ink, the handwriting extremely slanted.

"Who's it from?" Percy asks, his voice now more excited than tired.

Gingerly, Oliver opens the letter. He's half expecting it to be a Howler from McGonagall, or something equally brutal, so he's pleasantly surprised to find a short piece of parchment inside.

 _Dear Oliver,_

 _I understand that you have taken issue with the decision made by Professor McGonagall and myself to restrict first years' access to broomsticks._

 _I am impressed with the effort and creativity you have put into your campaign, as well as the organisational skills required to achieve such coherent coverage. Therefore, I would like to invite you to my office at 8am tomorrow morning for a more thorough discussion, face to face. The password for the gargoyle is_ chocolate frog.

 _Yours Sincerely,_

 _Albus Dumbledore_

"I can't believe you're getting to meet _the_ Professor Dumbledore, just because of a campaign!" Percy exclaims as soon as Oliver finishes reading the letter. "Do you want me to help you practice what you're going to say? He's an incredible wizard - they say that he's the _only_ wizard You-Know-Who was scared of. _And_ he defeated really bad guys a few years ago."

Percy continue to babble on about the actions of Professor Dumbledore, and Oliver tunes him out slightly as he thinks over his campaign with a smile. Not even a full day in, and he's got the highest authority in Hogwarts asking to meet him! Dumbledore must be scared that the campaign could start a whole rebellion where Quidditch becomes an official subject that all students have to participate in.

"Ah, no, it's cool thanks, Perce. I'm just going to go in and let him negotiate with me to get the campaign to end. Thanks though," Oliver replies when his friend prompts him. "I can't believe we've achieved this all already - haven't even had to miss a Quidditch practice to get it sorted, either."

Suddenly, all Oliver wants is for it to be eight tomorrow morning.

.

At eight o'clock on the dot, Oliver knocks on Professor Dumbledore's office door, and hears him say, "enter."

Cautiously, Oliver opens the door to see a very peculiar office. There's portraits of dozens of witches and wizards on the walls, with piles of books scattered around the room. There are even gold machines at random intervals, the functions of which Oliver cannot even dream of.

"Ah, Mr Wood, I see you received my late night communication," Professor Dumbledore says, rising to his feet. His tone is friendly, but it gives Oliver no indication of whether or not the Hogwarts hierarchy are ready to capitulate to his demands. "Come, take a seat - I see you brought some flyers, excellent. I've already had the pleasure of reading one provided by lovely Professor McGonagall, but I do so enjoy your phrasing throughout the piece."

Taking a seat opposite the headmaster, Oliver remains as neutral as possible as he looks at Dumbledore.

"So, you know what my campaign is about then?" Oliver begins, unsure on how to proceed.

Dumbledore nods, a small smile slipping onto his face. "I can assure you, Mr Wood, I was aware of your campaign by the time you entered your first class yesterday morning. Professor McGonagall does not waste time in reporting such outrageous displays."

Oliver's heart sinks. The word outrageous is one he's heard many times during the course of his life so far; it was used by his tutor to describe his attitude to learning about basic anatomy, and by his mother when discussing the likelihood of the Wood family moving closer to their local Quidditch ground. It's never a good word - at least not in Oliver's world.

"And can I ask _your_ opinion?" The words are out of his mouth before he can take them back, and there's a moment of silence as Dumbledore ponders the question.

"I cannot - and will not - overrule Professor McGonagall on a decision she has made for the good of the student body," Dumbledore begins gently, leaning forwards slightly towards Oliver. "However, I have great admiration for the skills you have exhibited in coordinating such an interesting and unique campaign. How long did it take you?"

"Three weeks," Oliver mutters, deflated. He's not going to win this, after all.

With this, Dumbledore smiles more widely than before, and claps his hands together. "Three weeks? Utterly remarkable, Mr Wood; I can assure you that you would do a far better job than many who work in the Ministry's campaigns office."

"Well, that's great to hear, but I probably should get going...thanks for letting me know that I've not achieved anything." Oliver's tone is deliberately dejected, an attempt to get his headteacher to feel bad enough that he allows the campaign to continue.

"But I have not finished," Dumbledore continues. "Whilst I am unwilling to overturn Professor McGonagall's first year ban, we have discussed the restrictions upon non-Quidditch players. Whilst we cannot give them the same access to broomsticks as Quidditch players, we have agreed that all students shall be permitted to fly on weekends, and summer evenings, within a certain area. Madam Hooch has also agreed to chaperone these students. Does this seem like an acceptable compromise?"

Oliver's immediate mental response is to say 'no', but he just about resists. He doesn't _want_ to accept the offer; his driving force for the last year has been to allow first years to fly again, and this doesn't achieve that goal.

"May I remind you, Mr Wood, that compromise is an important part of negotiations," Professor Dumbledore adds, his tone light. "And to sweeten the offer, Professor McGonagall has also agreed to not punish you for both missing class yesterday and the many incorrect allegations within your flyer."

Sighing, Oliver nods. "I agree, Professor. It sounds better than not being allowed to fly, anyway. Can I also request that none of my friends are punished for their involvement, as it was all me? Oh, and for the changes to be announced at dinner tonight?"

Dumbledore takes a moment to ponder Oliver's suggestion, with one hand stroking his exceptionally long beard as he does so. It makes Oliver nervous - perhaps, again, he should have taken on Percy's advice for how to negotiate with someone so...scary. Well, not scary. Powerful. Authoritative. _Important_.

"I accept your amendments, Mr Wood, and I am glad that we have managed to come to this arrangement without need for further damage to school property," Professor Dumbledore responds. "Someone will also dispose of your propaganda in the Entrance Hall; I must congratulate you on performing such a well done temporary sticking charm. Not many of your peers could achieve that, I imagine."

A few moments later as he leaves the office, Oliver feels a strange sense of both triumph and defeat. He's achieved one of his goals, but at the expense of first years' rights to play Quidditch.

However, as he walks down one of the many moving staircases in the centre of Hogwarts, he's glad that he achieved _something_. Maybe first year players is something he can campaign for in the future.

For now, he just wants to fly.

* * *

Please let me know your thoughts!


	5. Year Three, Part One

Apologies for the long update period!

* * *

Summer ends and third year begins, though not much feels different to Oliver Wood as he sits in the same compartment as he does for every trip on the Hogwarts Express, albeit with a few extra people in it. Alongside Percy, Patrick, Paul, Fiona, Melissa and a couple of other third year Gryffindors, there's also Percy's younger brothers, Fred and George.

Oliver remembers them from his visits to the Burrow the last two summers; they seem to be more like troublemakers than Percy, and they're also pretty decent at Quidditch. If it wasn't for the fact that they seem to prefer playing in the Beater positions, Oliver would be jealous of their arrival – and a little fearful for his position on the team.

They ended the last year positively, just managing to get enough points to win the trophy, and he's talked about it so much since that all of his friends and family have banned him from mentioning pretty much anything that happened in June. He's written down his memories of that day extensively though; he's going to need the raw emotion of thirteen year old Oliver when he comes to write his autobiography later in life, isn't he?

"Oliver, are you feeling okay?" He just about hears Fiona Jones saying to him, and opens his eyes to see that she's waving fingers in front of his face. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"…Five?" Oliver responds, confused. He just shut his eyes for a couple of minutes, he wasn't aware of there being any need for him to stay focused on the conversation between his friends. Between his sister's nightmares and his excitement for returning to Hogwarts, he didn't sleep very well last night.

Fiona sits back, smiling. "See, I _told_ you that he was alright, Percy. You should stop worrying so much."

Oliver's attention changes to Percy, who's looking studiously out of the window.

"Now we have your attention, Wood, are you going to weigh in on our conversation?" Paul asks, looking more than a little exasperated. "Gwenog Jones or Helen Leary – who's more likely to get the Player of the Year trophy next week?"

Unsurprisingly, Oliver spends the next fifteen minutes analysing each player's chances, and ninety percent of the people in the compartment regret jolting him from his reverie to join in the conversation.

.x.

"Welcome to third year, Gryffindor students," Professor McGonagall announces at the start of the first Transfiguration lesson of the year – which also happens to be Oliver's first lesson of third year. "This year, you have a slightly more diverse timetable, with the introduction of your optional specialisms. However, this does not reduce the focus that we place on the core subjects of Transfiguration, Charms, Potions and Herbology. Professor Dumbledore, myself, and all the other teachers expect you to put as much effort into these subjects as the ones that you have chosen to study."

"Are you coming down to the try-outs next week?" Oliver whispers to Fiona, sitting to his left. "MacGinty was a seventh year, so there's a Chaser position that needs filling."

"Oliver, be careful," Percy whispers from his other side, though Oliver ignores him. They're sat at the back of the classroom, McGonagall's unlikely to hear them all the way back here.

"Not sure," Fiona replies, obscuring her mouth with her hand. "Haven't practiced most of summer. Mum took my broom off me."

"Why?" Oliver replies, looking away from McGonagall to Fiona. "And I'm sure you'd be great anyway."

" _Oliver_ ," Percy mutters, a little louder and a little more urgently.

"Dunno," Fiona responds, a little more quietly than before. "Are you going to tryouts?"

"Yeah, Charlie wants us all there to see how they gel with us," Oliver says. As he speaks, he gets the feeling that he's being watched, but he shakes it off. "I'd want you on my team anyway."

Fiona doesn't reply, so Oliver turns back to face the front of the classroom– and realises that McGonagall isn't standing fifteen metres away.

She's standing right in front of him.

"Oh, Wood, please don't let me interrupt your conversation," she says to him, sarcasm dripping from her voice. "I'd love to hear more about Quidditch – and I'm sure the rest of the class would, too."

Oliver frowns. "How did you hear what I was talking about?" He asks, unwisely choosing to press the issue.

McGonagall's lips press themselves into a thin line as she shakes her head. "Wood, it's hardly an effort to decipher what your conversation is about," she comments, now looking at Percy. "You would do well to listen to Weasley; he at least knows when to shut up."

Percy blushes, but Oliver still doesn't take the cue to be quiet.

"So you _don't_ know what I was talking about?" He asks.

Both of his friends – and probably most of the class – groans, though there's at least a few laughs. It's common knowledge among the Gryffindor third years that you don't ask Wood a question related to Quidditch.

"Detention, Wood," McGonagall snaps, losing any hint of amusement from her voice. "Now, say another word and I'll ensure that you're banned from any form of Quidditch tryout for the rest of the year. Do you understand?"

Finally, Oliver figures out that he probably should keep his mouth shut, and nods his understanding.

After fixing him with a death stare that would probably have caused a first year to faint, McGonagall sweeps around and heads back towards the front of the classroom.

"Well done," Percy mutters, irritation evident in his voice. "Detention on the first day back."

Oliver _really_ hopes that the rest of the year isn't like this.

.x.

Three weeks into term, the team is sorted – Fiona didn't get on, much to Oliver's dismay – and practice is as enjoyable as last year, if not more so. He's bonded well with the new addition - Alicia Spinnet, a girl in the year below him – and he _thinks_ he remembers handing her a flyer about his opposition to the first year ban last year.

He's got a lot more homework than last year though, and that makes it a little more difficult to participate in the "free-flying" sessions that he helped to arrange with Dumbledore last year. True to his word, the headmaster publicised the sessions in the welcome assembly announcements: up until November, any student with a broom can fly between 10am and 2pm on Saturdays and Sundays.

The Wooden Cup, an event Oliver and his friends created in their first year, continues, though Oliver's only able to make it to one game a week. Whilst he'd like to participate more, McGonagall made it perfectly clear to him during his detention with her that, should his grades slip, she would remove him from the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

So, for what's probably the first time in his life, Oliver shows some restraint towards flying.

He's a little surprised when, on one Saturday afternoon in late September, the Weasley twins approach him. Though they're first years, he's pretty sure that they're almost as tall as he is – though his dad _insists_ that he'll experience a growth spurt at some point this year, he's struggling to believe him – and yet they're surprisingly stealthy. One minute they're not there, the next they are.

"Oliver, Oliver, Oliver," one of them – Fred, maybe? – says, taking a seat to Oliver's right-hand side.

"We've been looking everywhere for you," the other – George – adds, taking a seat to Oliver's left.

"First we tried the Quidditch field, but your friends said that you weren't there."

"So then we tried the free flying area. No sign of you."

"Then we got worried that you'd had some sort of accident and were in the Hospital Wing. But no."

"Imagine our surprise to come up here on a _gorgeous_ flying day, to find you sitting here. With _books_."

The twins roll off of one another more cohesively than anyone Oliver's ever known before, and his head's spinning by the time they stop talking.

"Yeah, well, McGonagall'll kick me off the team if I don't keep my grades up," Oliver replies glumly, closing the book in his hand. "So I figured I should do some work now before Quidditch season really kicks in."

The twins look at each other with glee, and Oliver gets a feeling that this was exactly what they wanted to hear.

"So, Oliver, we've got a proposition for you," the one Oliver thinks is Fred says, a twinkle in his eye.

"You know we like to fly, right?" George asks.

"Yes…?" Oliver replies, remembering both of his summers at the Burrow. The twins had been real assets on his team in the family competitions, and he was certain that they'd end up on the Gryffindor team at some point in the near future.

"Well, there's a few weeks left of free flying before Dumbledore decides that it's too dangerous to fly," Fred says.

"But we're first years – we're not allowed brooms, _even_ if Madam Hooch would sign us off as competent flyers," George continues, his voice bitter. "Apparently, just being a Weasley doesn't make us a good flier, apparently."

Oliver thinks of Percy's crippling fear whenever he's forced to fly, and smiles slightly.

"We'd like to make you a deal, Oliver."

"A _really_ good deal."

"One that you'd absolutely love to make."

Oliver smiles. "What's the deal?"

"You loan us your broom on a Saturday – unless you end up having practice, though I'm sure we can tell Charlie to do it on a different day – and we cover a couple of detentions for you some time."

It's tempting, Oliver has to admit, but there's just one tiny problem.

"But…you've got red hair and…I don't."

Fred laughs, and George puts his arm around Oliver's shoulders. It's clear to Oliver that the twins are going to go far in their lives, if only as shady deal-makers.

"Leave that to us, Mr Wood," George responds, laughing a little. "Just shake our hands and it's a done deal, we'll get the details sorted out another time, when we're not in a room which has eyes and ears."

Oliver smiles, and doesn't hesitate in reaching over to shake Fred and George's hands. "If you do any damage to my broom, you're buying me a new one. A top of the range one."

They nod, but Oliver regrets adding the last caveat. He knows, somewhere deep inside, about the Weasleys' money problems.

"Or, you know, just a similar one," he adds meekly, but the twins don't even notice.

"Never fear, Oliver, we're better fliers than even you."

"And _definitely_ better than Charlie. We're probably good enough to play for England now, if our mum'd let us."

"Good doing business with you, Oliver. We'll be in touch."

And with that, the twins are up and out of Oliver's line of sight within seconds.

(Little does he know that this deal is the start of the end of his friendship with Percy Weasley.)


	6. Year Three, Part Two

"Oliver," Tom Johnson, occupant of the bed opposite Oliver Wood's in the Gryffindor boys third year dormitory, hisses across the room. "Oliver. _Wake up_."

His final two words are said a little louder, and yet have no impact on the dead-to-the-world boy in the bed closest to the dormitory's door. After a particularly late night plotting out potential Quidditch strategies to counter Ravenclaw's recently beefed up moves, even the notion of waking up anywhere near to breakfast time on this Saturday morning is alien to Oliver Wood.

However, Oliver's sleep is rudely interrupted by the shrieked cry of his name by an outrageously tall, lanky ginger-haired individual standing at the foot of his bed.

Still groggy with sleep, Oliver sits up slowly, bleary-eyed, and makes eye contact with a furious Percy Weasley, who looks to Oliver as if he's about to start a duel.

"Morning, Perce," Oliver says through a yawn, making no effort to cover his mouth. They're friends, and he's taking a little longer than normal to process the fact that the expression on Percy's face isn't the usual friendly – or at least patient – expression he's normally greeted with. "Have a good sleep?"

Percy stares at him, his expression icy though his stance betrays his anger. When he's annoyed, Percy stands with his hands on his hips, legs apart, his back as straight as a rod. It's something that Oliver has taken great pride in pointing out to his friend – provided _he_ isn't the reason for the stance. Which, unfortunately, appears to be the case today.

Sitting slightly more upright, Oliver's about to add something to his clearly mispitched question, when Percy starts to speak.

"I know you love Quidditch," Percy begins in clipped tones, ignoring Oliver's salutation. "I know Fred and George love Quidditch. But do you not think, as a _third year_ , you should have a little more sense than agreeing to letting them _borrow your broomstick_? Can you _really_ not see any problems with that?"

It takes Oliver a couple of seconds to process Percy's words, and a couple more for them to make sense in his mind. Broomstick, Fred and George…why might Percy have an issue with that?

Oh. Because they're related.

"I, er," Oliver begins, but Percy clearly hasn't finished his tirade.

"Rules are there for a reason, Oliver!" Percy half-shouts, pacing slightly but never taking his eyes off of Oliver. " _You're_ the reason, you should know that first years can't fly. It doesn't matter how good they bloody are – how good they _think_ they are – they are children!"

"Well, so are we, Perce," Oliver quips. Once again, he's misread the situation. Or, rather, his brain has misjudged the appropriate response.

" _WE SHOULD BE RESPONSIBLE, WOOD!"_ Percy screeches, so loudly that Oliver idly wonders if the Giant Squid can hear Percy's dulcet tones. "I can't understand why you'd do this." He laughs once, then twice. "Actually, I can. Because Quidditch is all you can think about. What I just can't understand is that you wouldn't tell me."

Not daring to trust himself to respond directly to Percy's comments, Oliver mumbles, "how did you find out?"

"Because while you _think_ you might be all master spies and secret-keepers, Wood, Fred and George are _eleven_ ," Percy continues, and Oliver can hear the anger. Percy rarely calls him Wood, after all. "I watched them with my own eyes flounce down to the Quidditch field after breakfast, broom on one of their shoulders, discussing how they were going to enchant the apples they'd stolen!"

Hmm, after breakfast. That means that it's later than Oliver initially thought.

Asking the time, however, he decides would be too poor a decision, even for him.

"I, er, I don't know what to say," Oliver continues, his voice low. He can't make eye contact with Percy, not now. Not when he knows what Percy, the king of honour, is going to ask next.

"Do you regret it?" Percy asks, his voice dropping from a shout to a steady tone with barely restrained anger colouring the edges.

Oliver has to answer honestly. And he has to answer in one word; Percy doesn't care about the reasons, he just cares whether Oliver fits into his straightforwardly black and white view of the world.

"No."

* * *

~x~

The following week is the tensest ever experienced in the Gryffindor Boys Third Year dormitory. Percy isn't speaking to Oliver, Tom and Paul aren't sure who they should be speaking to so decide to stay out of it and stick with their Ravenclaw friends, and Patrick decides vehemently to support Oliver but doesn't want to tell Percy this, so doesn't speak to anyone.

It's a mess, and Oliver isn't sure what to do. He should have lied, he recognises, he should have told Percy that he regretted his decision to make a deal with the trickster twins. But, in his heart of hearts, he can't say that. Because he doesn't. From a selfish perspective, he recognises the Quidditch potential of the boys, and he knows that, should he ever become Captain, he wants them on his team – and he wants them as good as possible before they get onto it.

And from another, more humanitarian perspective, he likes the boys. He wanted to let them fly because, truthfully, if he had been in their situation he would have wanted someone to help him. He would have done anything to get his hands on a broom, so really, he's helped Percy out. Rather than hearing that his friend's made a deal with the boys, Percy could have been hearing of their accidental death due to a misunderstanding on the black market, after all.

"Mr Wood, I do hope that my lesson isn't distracting you from your Quidditch preparation." Professor McGonagall's voice is razor sharp, sarcastic to the very core.

Oliver looks up to see that somewhere between the last time he could remember looking at the teacher and now, she's migrated to be standing directly in front of him.

"I, er, sorry," he mumbles, deciding that it isn't worthwhile protesting that, for once, he wasn't thinking of Quidditch. At least, he wasn't thinking of it directly.

McGonagall holds his gaze. "I'm told that, when you're discussing Quidditch, you're quite convincing, Wood. I'm yet to see evidence of this in my classroom."

Blushing, Oliver casts a brief glance around the room to find that the other thirty students in the class are all intently staring at him. Just as he would be, had this been any of them.

"I'm sorry for being distracted in your lesson," Oliver attempts an apology, returning his attention to Professor McGonagall. "I promise it won't happen again."

She still doesn't look convinced.

"Stay back at the end of the lesson, Wood," McGonagall says, her tone ice cold as she returns to the front of the classroom. "Mr Weasley, I hadn't realised that I'd said anything even remotely amusing. Do wipe that smile off of your face before I ask you to stay back, too."

.

"Take a seat, Wood," McGonagall says, her tone flat, at the end of the lesson. It's break time, and Oliver laments the hastily made cheese and onion sandwich that's currently sitting in his bag. He wonders for a split second if she would mind if he ate it now…

Hesitantly, Oliver takes a seat opposite his Head of House, unsure what the situation is. It's about more than just his distracted state in the lesson, he's sure of that: normally, he receives lines or a detention immediately. He's never normally asked to stay behind – at least not to discuss his attention deficit.

"Wood, we should have been having this conversation a month ago, but I wanted to give you some time to try and sort the situation out," McGonagall says firmly, but neutrally.

Instantly, Oliver's heart sinks.

She's taking him off the team.

"Please," he says, suddenly energetic as he does his best to fight the tears which threaten to fall. He can't lose this, he _can't_. "Please don't do it, Professor. I'm doing my best, I promise."

"But you're _not_!" McGonagall snaps. "We have had conversation after conversation about your poor Transfiguration performance. You have assured me time after time that you will improve, and yet I can see no sign of the improvement ever materialising! You take an important qualification in two years, Oliver, which may sound far away at the moment but, I assure you, it will be here before you know it. And you cannot focus on anything other than how to get a ball through a hoop!"

"Four balls, three hoops," Oliver mutters pedantically.

"As I am well aware," McGonagall shoots back, her expression equally icy. "I have spoken to your parents, and they are in agreement that, until your grades in Transfiguration improve, you are to be removed from the Quidditch team."

" _Please_ ," Oliver repeats, giving up any pretence of control as he leans forwards in his chair. "One more chance, please, I'm begging you, Professor. Please. It's all I live for."

There's a sad half-smile on McGonagall's face as she rises from her seat. "Then I recommend you find something else to live for, Mr Wood," she says, almost kindly. "Perhaps start with Transfiguration."

* * *

~x~

There's a grim expression on Charlie Weasley's face as he approaches Oliver in the corner of the Common Room that evening.

"You alright?" Charlie says by means of greeting, though Oliver doesn't even acknowledge him. "Look, I heard what McGonagall said. It isn't an issue, you're not off the team."

That gets Oliver's attention. Unfortunately, deep down, he knows it's only a ploy.

"Yeah, I am," Oliver says glumly. After the initial sadness, there was anger, followed by despair and now, a strange form of acceptance. "I'm really sorry, Charlie. I am trying my best, I just can't crack the subject. And McGonagall doesn't believe that I'm trying."

"Are you though?" Charlie's voice, while not exactly angry, isn't exactly the most supportive tone Oliver's ever heard. "Nobody doubts your dedication to Quidditch, Ol, but to anything else? You spend more time on that broom than anyone else on the team combined. Which would be fine, but not if you're supposed to be sorting your grades out."

"But it's boring!"

Charlie smiles. "So are most things that we have to do in life. Do you think that McGonagall enjoys having to tell you off – or take you off the team? She's the most into-Quidditch Head of House Gryffindor has ever had, and Dumbledore had the job before her. But you didn't exactly give her a choice."

Oliver's torn between classifying this chat as a telling off, or as some form of moral support.

"I guess you're right," Oliver says begrudgingly. "But even if I try, I won't do well enough for her to put me back onto the team. I was only doing alright in second year because Percy helped me with most of it and, well…"

"Yeah, I heard about the deal with my twin brothers," Charlie continues, but to Oliver's great relief doesn't offer his opinion on it. "Look, Perce will be fine in the end. It'll just take him a bit of time to come round. Mum always says that he's got a better moral compass than most Wizengamot Chief Justices."

"So do you think that I'll get back onto the team?" Oliver's voice is barely more than a whisper, but Charlie hears him.

"You're not off the team, no matter what McGonagall says," Charlie replies firmly. "We don't have a game for another six weeks, that's more than enough time for you to get your grades up. If not, we'll get a sub in for that game – if we even play it. February games normally get called off, which would give you even more time. Just put effort in, okay?"

"Okay."

"Right, good chat, now get on with some transfiguring!" Charlie finishes, clapping a hand on Oliver's shoulder in solidarity before standing up. "Oh, and Oliver?"

"Yeah?"

"Try not to make any more deals with my twin brothers," Charlie adds, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "At least until they're in second year. Then you can see about getting them on the team anyway, yeah?"

* * *

~x~

"Oliver?" Patrick Sullivan's voice sounds concerned to Oliver's covered ears. "Oliver, it's time for the Ravenclaw-Slytherin game. You need to get up!"

Oliver shakes his head, resolve tight within his stomach. Just about, anyway. It's taking everything in him to not get up from his bed, Transfiguration books, and practice feathers to go and see a rare game of his favourite sport. His _only_ sport.

"Can't," he says by way of reply. "Need to get to grips with colour changing spells by tomorrow morning so that I can try and do size changing then."

" _Oliver_ ," Tom Johnson says, his tone betraying his exasperation. "You have been working non-stop for the last _two weeks_. I'm fairly certain that McGonagall didn't mean for you to work yourself to death by transfiguring everything you can."

"Faster I do it, faster I can get back on a broom." Oliver's reply is deadpan, and straight to the point. "Let me know the score, and I'll do my statistics tonight. See you later."

"Come on, mate," Patrick tries again.

"See you later," Oliver repeats.

Tom and Patrick walk out, leaving Oliver to his books and feathers.

It takes him three quarters of an hour to get the white feather to a vague cream-colour, and a further hour and a half to get it to be light blue.

He takes it as a victory.

(Slytherin decimate Ravenclaw and, in his brief ten minute statistic analysis that evening, Oliver's pleased to see that his calculations about Ravenclaw's tactical decisions were as correct as ever.)

* * *

~x~

"Mr Wood, a word please." McGonagall's voice is cool as she calls Oliver back into the classroom at the end of the double Transfiguration period of the following Monday.

Hesitantly, Oliver steps back into the classroom, closing the door behind him. He waits near it, however, keen to bolt as soon as possible.

McGonagall fixes him with a hard stare. "I understand you didn't attend the Quidditch match on Saturday, Wood."

Oliver averts his gaze from the teacher, instead looking at the floor.

"Yeah, well, I had to do Transfiguration practice." He hopes his tone doesn't sound as sullen to her as it does to his ears.

"Wood, when I told you that you needed to do something other than Quidditch, I didn't mean for you to spend all of your time doing it!" McGonagall's tone is almost concerned, and Oliver looks up, shocked. "You don't need to spend all of your time practicing."

"I do," Oliver replies flatly. "I spend loads of time doing it, and I'm still not really getting better. The faster I get things, the faster I can play Quidditch again."

A faint smile appears on McGonagall's lips.

"You were listening, after all," she replies, attempting (and failing) to sound cool.

"Yep," Oliver says, tightening his grip on his bag. "Look, Professor, without being rude, but can I go? I need to try and get the size changing spell by lunch to keep on track with my practice schedule."

"Your friends were so outraged that you didn't attend the Quidditch game that they came and harassed me for most of yesterday," McGonagall continues as if she hadn't heard Oliver's question. Which, if she operates the same selective hearing as he does, she might not have. "They told me how hard you've been working, and how you have made significant improvements. Which, after today's lesson, I can verify. Therefore, we need to set up a timetable for you to continue and you _will_ need a friend to help you practice…but I am happy to accept you back onto the Gryffindor Quidditch team."

There's silence in the classroom.

"Is this a trick?" Oliver blurts out.

McGonagall's eyes narrow. "I can assure you, Mr Wood, that I am not trying to trick you. You will be on a reduced flying schedule – scheduled practices only until March – but you can play. Try and do something moderately for once, won't you? You need to learn a little balance, rather than doing all or nothing."

Oliver's suddenly unable to hear anything she's saying.

 _He's back on the team!_

"I, er, thank you Professor," he mumbles, not trusting himself to say much else in case he sounds so ecstatic that she immediately takes him off the team again. "Um, who came to see you?"

"The entirety of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, along with every single Gryffindor Third Year," McGonagall says, the same smile playing with the corners of her lips. "You have a loyal year, Wood."

* * *

~x~

Hesitantly, more hesitantly than he's done anything before, Oliver approaches Percy shortly before bedtime that evening.

"Um, Perce?"

Percy looks up, his expression neutral.

"Look, I just wanted to say something I should have said before," Oliver says, wracking his brains for the exact words he wants to say. "I'm sorry…for not telling you about the deal…and for making it, obviously.

"It's fine," Percy says quickly, but Oliver interrupts him.

"No, it isn't and you were right to be angry…I should have been more responsible and not made it," Oliver replies firmly. "I promise that I'll put our friendship before Quidditch from now on. And if I do anything that I think I should tell you, I definitely will. Promise."

Percy smiles. "I accept your apology," he says, proffering his hand. It's such a Percy Weasley thing to do, that Oliver laughs a little before shaking it firmly.

"Can we be friends again?"

They're friends again…but at least partially due to a promise that, deep down, Oliver knows that he can't keep.

* * *

Sincere apologies for the length of time between updates! I'll do my best to be more consistent going forwards.


	7. Year Four, Part One

Apologies for the period of time between updates!

* * *

"So, as you're all aware, this is my last year at Hogwarts," Charlie Weasley begins his annual start of the year speech to the remaining members of the previous year's Quidditch team on the second day of term. "We've won the cup two of the last three years, guys. We're on form. We'll do amazingly this year if we keep the focus."

Oliver's transfixed by his Captain's speech – though, in all honesty, part of it is imagining the possibility of _him_ giving the same speech next year.

He looks to his left and right, however, and sees one other player. And then he remembers: the mass departure.

Last year, most of the Quidditch team had been seventh years: both Beaters, one constant Chaser and the sometimes first team, sometimes reserve Chaser, Rosie Shacklebolt, had all departed the Hogwarts gates at the end of the summer term.

"Our numbers are depleted," Charlie continues, almost as if he could read Oliver's mind. "But we've got some good blood in our reserve ranks and, from what I know of the new second years, there's quite a few strong players."

Oliver can barely contain a snort as he realises that two of the players Charlie is referring to are his mischief making, havoc wreaking (but incredible Quidditch players) younger twin brothers.

"We'll be having tryouts next weekend, as usual," Charlie adds, clapping his hands together. "So if the three of us can keep ourselves out of detention, that'd be grand. Though, in all honesty, the only one of us with a chance of going _into_ detention is Mr Wood…"

Oliver's head snaps up once again at the mention of his name. "Hey, no fair, Weasley!" Oliver retorts, feeling the blood rush through his veins. "I definitely won't jeopardise this Quidditch team's chances of success!" Somewhere between being a fourth year, spending at least a week at the Burrow every year for three years and knowing four of the six Weasley brothers, Oliver's reached the stage where he's comfortable getting involved in some form of banter with his Captain.

"But maybe make sure that you don't focus _too_ much on the Quidditch this week though, yeah, Oliver?" Charlie suggests.

"Like, you've literally drawn your suggestion for a new tactic on the back of the Transfiguration pamphlet that McGonagall gave us _this morning_ ," Alicia Spinnet, formerly a reservist Chaser and now the sole player in that position, adds with a smirk. "You might want to duplicate it though, Wood. It'll actually be pretty helpful – and reduce the amount of homework you have to do throughout the year."

"I'll do anything to reduce the amount of Transfiguration homework I get," Oliver mutters, making a mental note to actually read the pamphlet before discarding it. Or, rather, asking Percy to tell him whether it's worth him reading.

"Anyway," Charlie continues, clearly keen to wrap up his speech. "It's been a pleasure as always, guys. Hopefully next year, whoever's Captain gets to actually make the speech to enough players to make it worthwhile you going down to the changing rooms, rather than just sitting in the Common Room."

Oliver smirks. "Yeah, it loses a bit of the passion, I think," he agrees, tucking his new tactic explanation into his back pocket. "Good speech though, Charlie. I'm feeling particularly inspired to focus entirely on Quidditch and completely ignore any form of education this school tries to give me during the year."

"Let's be fair, Wood, that's what you were always going to do – you're just using my impeccable phrasing to justify your infatuation with the sport," Charlie jokes. "Anyway, guys, I'll see you Saturday for the try-outs. _Don't_ end up in detention."

After briefly conferring with Alicia about whether there really is any benefit to Oliver reading the pamphlet, he moves across the Common Room to join the rest of the fourth year boys. As he drops down onto the rug in front of the fire, Oliver's mind wanders briefly to consider how much emptier the room feels compared to his first two years. Whilst part of it is just the fact that he's gotten much more comfortable with the room now that he's almost one of the oldest, there's definitely been a reduction in the number of students arriving at Hogwarts. Part of it, he thinks, is that some of the middling wizarding families relocated to America and the rest of Europe during You-Know-Who's reign of terror. Those who stayed…most of them just didn't have any kids, or at least any kids until the danger was gone.

"There's so many less kids nowadays, isn't there," Oliver comments randomly, interrupting Tom Johnson's tirade about something to do with rude Slytherins in Diagon Alley.

"Aren't there," Percy corrects.

Oliver barely manages to resist rolling his eyes. Somewhere over summer, everything started to annoy him, and his friend's pedantry is definitely high on the irritation list. "Yeah, aren't there loads less kids than when we started?"

The rest of his friends look around the room. "Yeah, I guess so," Paul Harrison comments distantly.

"Must be because of You-Know-Who," Patrick Sullivan adds, almost conspiratorially.

"It's gonna be difficult for the Quidditch team," Oliver continues, almost as if he hasn't heard his friends. "Like, we've always had a reserve team to jump in if we need them. But I think that we're going to be just down to a first team – and we'll be screwed for Seekers after Charlie leaves next year…" He could continue to ramble on about the relevance of declining student numbers to the future of his favourite sport, but he recognises the sound of his friends' laughter.

"Not even three sentences before he got started on Quidditch," Emily Thorne, another fourth year, comments through her laughter. "I think that that's two knuts you owe me, Harrison."

"Yeah, well, I clearly had more faith in him than you, Thorne," Paul grumbles, reaching into his pocket and grabbing the money out. "Perce? You alright?"

Oliver looks up at the mention of his friend, to see an almost vacant expression on Percy's face.

"Yes," Percy comments, his voice flat. "Fine. Just tired. I'm going to go to bed so I can get up early tomorrow and read through the new Potions textbook before breakfast. Goodnight."

"Is he alright?" Oliver asks, his voice hushed, sitting upright slightly. "He seems…more Percy-like than normal."

His friends nod in agreement, their three years together meaning that "Percy-like" requires no explanation.

"You didn't see him in the holidays, did you?" Paul asks.

Oliver shifts uncomfortably. "Well, I stayed at the Burrow in the first week, but I mainly played Quidditch with Charlie and the rest of them."

"Weren't you meant to go back in August?"

Once again, Oliver shifts a little. "Well…yeah…but then my Dad got me tickets to go and see a couple of different qualifying games for the World Cup and I mean I _had_ to go and see Mallory play! He's a legend."

There's an uncomfortable silence for a moment, until Patrick breaks it. "Well, yeah that explains it. I think he's just decided that he wants to put more effort into studying or something, that's what I got from him when we met up in summer."

Oliver frowns. "But he's already, like, top in Gryffindor."

"He wants to be top across the year," Emily explains. "I have to admit, I'm surprised he didn't get put in Ravenclaw."

"Nah," Oliver replies, his mind taking him to distant places. "He's definitely a Gryffindor. I've seen it."

* * *

~x~

Almost within the blink of an eye, the Christmas holidays are upon the Gryffindor fourth years. Holidays which, for the first time, have a substantial amount of homework – though that's work that Oliver's planning on ignoring until well after Christmas.

The new – well, new since September – Quidditch team is strong, Oliver knows that. And it's young: other than Charlie, they'll all be here next year. There's himself and Spinnet, from before. Then two new Chasers – Angelina Johnson and Freya Hanson – and the Weasley twins as Beaters to complete the team. And they're good. New and slightly green, Oliver has to admit, but good – and perfectly malleable. He's certain that next year, should he make Captain, they'll rise to and exceed his game tactics.

"Hey," Oliver says, almost warily, as he enters his dorm and encounters Percy Weasley. It's been a strange term: whilst he hasn't spent his entire time playing Quidditch, largely due to Charlie's insistence on reducing practice to twice a week so as not to spend his entire life with his younger brothers, he hasn't really seen his former best friend. Or, former best Gryffindor friend. But, much like Edward disappeared shortly into second year except for the occasional family party, Percy seems to have almost disappeared. Whenever Oliver returns from practice, Percy is in the library – and even when he's in the Common Room, he's in the studying corner with silencing charms on the walls to reduce the general din in the room.

He hasn't even gone on the last two Hogsmeade weekend trips, preferring instead to revise for upcoming tests – though in which subject he has tests, Oliver has no idea. He's fairly certain that he hasn't taken a test before the end of the year in any of his other years at Hogwarts, and he doubts that the year before OWLs would see them be introduced.

"Hello," Percy replies shortly, looking up briefly from folding his jumper into a perfect square. "You haven't started packing." He says it as a comment of fact, rather than as a question, suggesting he already knows the answer.

"Yeah, Charlie wants to do some practice over the start of the holidays," Oliver explains, before realising that his friend probably already knows this. He doesn't need to share, however, that it was his persistence that got Charlie to agree to run the mini bootcamp for their newest players. "We're heading home midweek by Floo, I think."

"Good," Percy replies, equally shortly.

"Good?" Oliver repeats without thinking.

"Yes," Percy says, almost as if he's talking to a child. "Because then it doesn't inconvenience our parents any more than necessary."

Oliver nods, before standing awkwardly, his mouth open. How have they reached this, he wonders. Just three months ago, they were able to have a conversation in the Common Room; six months before, they were able to laugh and joke about everything from the Giant Squid up to what McGonagall does on a weekend. But now…now, everything's different.

If he can be certain of one thing, it's that he, Oliver, hasn't changed. He hasn't become any more obsessed with his favourite sport – or anything else, for that matter (and certainly not Transfiguration). It's Percy who's changed, and not for the better.

"Do you want a hand?" Oliver says finally, after he stares at Percy's perfect folding for almost a minute.

"No, I'm fine," Percy responds almost immediately. "But thank you," he adds as an afterthought, his tone stiff.

"Right, well, I'll see you later?" Oliver persists, unsure how to leave this conversation without damaging their friendship (or whatever remains of it) any further. "And…if not, if you're asleep I mean…have a great Christmas. And a great New Year."

"You too," Percy replies, his tone a little less formal and more like the boy he was before. "Merry Christmas, Wood."

If there's anything that could symbolise the end of the easy stage of their friendship, it's Percy's clearly natural transition to calling him 'Wood' rather than Oliver.


End file.
